PROTECTOR AND PROTECTED.
"You can't do some things with impunity."
"The Ring and the Book."
THESE thoughts flashed through Jean's mind, as she stood resolutely
still, trying to be unconscious of the sense of dread which drove all
colour from her face. It was a sensation no less unpleasant than new.
Up to this date, Jean could almost have said with the infant Nelson,
"What is fear? I never saw it." Something of danger she had known;
and she knew what it was to meet danger with an undaunted spirit: but
actual womanly terror had not assailed her.
She might have met a dozen men in the loneliest lanes of Dulveriford,
one after another, and have cared little for it; greeting each in
succession with a pleasant word. But this man—! Jean could not tell
what it was about him which frightened her. She was only, all at once,
conscious of her own girlish helplessness, as she never had been before.
Still, whatever Jean felt, she would not be soon overcome. As he stood
and stared, she said, "Will you let me pass, if you please?"
He half moved as if to comply; then, changing his mind, he grasped
either parapet of the narrow bridge with a large hand.
"Perhaps you have something that you wish to say to me. What is it?"
asked Jean.
The very effort to seem brave made her inwardly braver.
No answer came.
"Do you want anything?" she repeated. "Are you in trouble?" as the
stolid misery of the dark face grew upon her.
"In—trouble!" The words dropped slowly, and a guttural laugh followed.
"I like that!—I do!"
"Is your name Barclay?"
"Yer've hit it! My name's Barclay."
He mounted on the wooden bridge, a good step higher than the path on
which he had stood; and all Jean's strength of nerve was required to
keep her from flight; but she was convinced that her wisest plan was to
show no alarm.
"Now yer mind! I've sommat to say to yer—if so be yer the Parson's
darter."
Evidently he knew Jean by sight, though she had not known him.
"Mr. Trevelyan is my father."
"Then yer'll tell the Parson as how I don't want none of he! Nor none
of his talk! Nor none of his preaching! Nor none of his religion!"
The man spoke with a dogged fierceness, bordering on insolence.
Jean stood perfectly still, her head high, as she answered—"Yes."
"Yer can tell him! I'll have nought of he! Had enough o' parsons, and
don't want no more. If he'll let me be, I'll let he be. And if so be he
comes a-meddling, it'll be the wuss for he! Yer mind! I ain't a-going
to stand it!" He stepped forward, and shook a wrathful fist within a
yard of Jean's face; yet still she would not quail. "Yer understand? I
ain't a-going to stand it!" And an oath followed.
"Hush! You are not to speak so to me,"' said Jean slowly. "I will tell
my father what you say. You are at liberty to send a message; but there
is no need to be angry."
Barclay's clenched hand dropped. Something in the still face of the
girl calmed the wild animal which was uppermost in him. She had
marvellous self-control; for no one looking on could have guessed her
terror.
"Look 'ere!" He spoke in accents a trifle more subdued. "I means what I
says! I don't mean no harm to nobody so as I'm let alone. But I won't
be meddled with. Nor I won't be preached at."
"I will give your message, and my father will do what he thinks right.
If you have no more to say, will you please let me pass?"
"No: I ain't done yet." A darker expression rolled over his face, and
he scowled at Jean. "I ain't done yet. Look 'ere! Yer don't think it,
but I means what I says. If you parson comes along a-meddling, it'll be
the wuss for he! Tell yer—! I'd heave him over them rocks, as easy—!"
Jean's breath grew quick, and righteous wrath flushed the young face.
"Do you know what you are saying?" she broke in. "Do you know that
you are threatening murder? And for what? Because my father is kind
and good, and will not leave off trying to help you." She grew very
white, speaking with passionate earnestness. "I know—I understand—you
have lived a miserable life! And when my father would bring you, if he
could, a little hope—then you talk of throwing him over the rocks. Is
that worthy of a man? At least you could meet kindness by kindness.
What do you suppose my father gains by going after you? Nothing!"
"He be the Parson! 'Tis his trade! He be paid for it!"—sullenly.
"Paid for it! What do you call being paid for it? He has a small
income, and he is expected to see to the Church and the Parish. Do you
suppose he gets a penny more by going to see you! If he never went near
your cottage again, nobody would call him to account. He goes because
he thinks it right—not because of anything he can gain by it. He goes
because he wants you to be happy."
Barclay seemed with an effort to shake himself free from the effect of
her words. "Tell yer—! It's no good! Don't want to be helped. Yer don't
know," flinging out once more a clenched hand towards Jean, and holding
it extended. "Tell yer—! I'll have nought to do with Parsons. Never
no more! Don't believe in 'em! Nor don't believe in Church! Nor don't
believe in nothin'. Tell yer! I means to be let alone!"
Cyril's voice rang out indignantly at this juncture: "Jean! You here!"
In a moment he was on the bridge, past Barclay, whom he twisted half
round in his passage, and beside Jean; his eyes flashing; his whole
figure alert for action.
Jean saw so much; saw the brawny arm struck down; and heard a sharp
interchange of angry words, culminating in a contemptuous "Be off!"
from Cyril.
Then the man was gone; and reaction from resolute courage had rendered
her almost unable to stand. But the relief of Cyril's presence—! Jean
had laughed often at his boyishness, congratulating herself on her own
independent spirit. She learnt this day that the bravest woman living
cannot always do without a man to protect her.
"What was it all about?" asked Cyril, when he had guided Jean to a
mossy lump of rock, and had made her sit down. "What did the fellow
do to you? No, don't answer yet—" as an effort to reply brought
back the convulsive tremor in her throat. "Keep quiet a minute. The
wretch!—What a good thing I came! They told me at the Rectory that you
were gone up the Gorge. I say, I'll get some water. I've got my little
travelling-cup here, in my pocket. It won't take me three minutes to
climb down—and you're regularly shaken."
"Don't go—please. He might come back."
This from Jean! Cyril could hardly believe his own ears. For the first
time within the recollection of both, he was the protector, Jean the
protected. Reversal of the childish order of things had been long
in coming; but here it was; and Cyril had difficulty in hiding his
gratification.
"The fellow won't come back. He knows better. Now tell me all about
it—" with an authority which at any other time would have made Jean
laugh or resist. She obeyed now, meekly as ever Cyril had submitted
himself to her, and gave particulars.
"You were about as plucky as any girl could be," decided Cyril. "But
I say, Jean, you ought to take warning. It's not right for you to
be wandering about in all sorts of wild places alone. I wonder Mr.
Trevelyan doesn't see. You ought to take more care, really."
"I hope my father will not meet Barclay. You are sure he went down
the Gorge—not up? Oh, I am all right again—" in answer to renewed
inquiries. "I can't think why I was so stupid. Do you really not mind
waiting a few minutes? My father is sure to come directly."
"As if I could leave you for the chance of another fright!" Cyril
seated himself on the rock beside Jean, and chatted on matters
indifferent, winning her thoughts from the past scene.
He had not been so like his old self for a good while; though it was an
old self with new elements intermixed. Presently a break occurred: and
as Jean was about to recur to Mr. Trevelyan's long absence, he dashed
into a new subject.
"Jean—there is something I want to ask of you!"
"Yes. What?"
"I want you to be kind to some friends of mine, coming to live in
Dulveriford."
"What name?"
"Captain and Mrs. Lucas. Nephew of old Lady Lucas, and . . . Then you
have heard—?"
"Not much. But, Cyril—! Friends of yours!"
"Why not?"
"I should have thought—Some one told me nobody would call upon them.
Lady Lucas least of all."
"I didn't think you stooped to run with the tide."
"Of course, my father as a clergyman would do anything he could. But if
they are not in our Parish—"
"Then you'll wrap yourself in your superior virtue, and hold aloof,
like the rest of the world?"
Jean was puzzled at the mortified feeling in his tone.
"I can't understand. How came they to be your friends? Don't think
me hard upon them, please, because I can only know what I have been
told . . . Miss Devereux will not call."
"You don't suppose I am going to be in leading-strings to aunt Sybella
all my life."
"No—only—Where did you come across them first?"
"Last autumn, in Switzerland. Captain Lucas and I met first on a
mountain-top—overtaken by the same storm; and we took refuge in the
same hut. After that we saw a lot of one another. I had walks with him
and his daughter—and I used to go in for afternoon tea. Aunt Sybella
was seedy, with any amount of coddling on hand; so I pleased myself."
"Did she and they meet?"
"Oh, she didn't come across them. They were in lodgings—not at our
hotel. He's a well-read man—very good manners—and then one's so awfully
sorry for him. She's about the nicest woman I know—Mrs. Lucas, I mean.
And they are fighting one of the hardest battles a man ever had to
fight—that's to say he is; and she helps him . . . You good people are
all so exclusive, that you won't put out a helping hand. You only draw
your saintly skirts aside, for fear of contamination, and walk by on
the other side. If ever a man fell among thieves, Captain Lucas has.
And if ever a man needed kind friends—I suppose he would get enough of
pity and help too, if he were a working man, struggling to be sober.
Being unfortunately a gentleman by birth, he only has the cold shoulder
all round."
Jean listened in bewildered silence to this rush of words. A new phase
of Cyril had appeared. She could not divine all the hidden springs
which moved him; but strong feeling on behalf of another was sure to
rouse her interest.
"I should like to understand more," she said. "What I heard was that
Lady Lucas' nephew was a confirmed drunkard—dismissed from the army for
hard drinking. Don't mind my saying it, please: because I was told."
"There's truth in the tale. He has a desperate tendency that way. It's
awfully rough on him. His father died of delirium tremens; and the bent
has come down to Captain Lucas. A horrible thing to have inherited!
Then there was his bringing up, all through boyhood his father was a
victim to drink, and the boy tempted every way. His mother was a good
woman, but I don't think she counted for much in the household. Then he
was put into the army; and you know what that means. He couldn't stand
against it."
"And then—?"
"He had warning after warning; and it ended in his being dismissed.
That sobered him; and about the same time, his mother died, making him
promise to take a fresh start. Ever since, for years, he has kept up
the struggle . . . I don't suppose you or I can fancy what it is—the
sort of craving that seizes on him at times. Once in a way, he is
overcome; and then he despairs; yet still he fights on. He never goes
out to dinner—or anywhere, if a bottle of wine might be on the table;
for he daren't trust himself."
"I wonder any one could marry him."
"She had known him all her life. It was a few years after he left the
army—and she knew how determined he was to conquer. She thought she
could help him; and I am sure she does. He told me himself that in some
of his fits of despair, he never could have got up again, but for her.
There's nobody else. None of his relations will have a word to say to
him—they are such very good people, Jean—"
"You needn't sneer!"
"But it's true! And all her friends have cast her off for marrying him."
"I really can't think how she could. Was it right?"
"I suppose she thought it was: and she had to settle the question for
herself. It's not a common case, you know—not like a man mastered by
the habit. And the question is now, when he is so different, ought
every one to go on punishing him for what he was once? I don't say he
will never be overcome again. He may—some day. It's a frightfully hard
battle—nobody knows how hard. But what more can he do than he is doing?
He has kept straight now for over a year; and I do believe he will
conquer in the end. I can't see that he ought to be treated like pariah
by all good people. Wouldn't real goodness mean doing all one could to
help him? . . . I'm not sneering at religion, Jean!—Only at the sort of
sham goodness that—You know what I mean!"
"If one could help him really—"
"Of course one can. Nobody has any business to ask him to dinner,
if wine is on table. If he knew, he wouldn't go! They don't have it
in their house; and Em—I mean, Miss Lucas—has never tasted anything
stronger than water. There's nothing for them but that plan: with his
tendencies. He can't be moderate; so he must give up altogether . . .
Still, I do think a few friends might call sometimes, and be kind
to them, and make a little change for the poor girl; and ask them
to afternoon tea. Or even for once, if it wasn't too desperate a
self-denial, manage not to have wine on table."
"If my father is willing, I shall be glad enough to call. When do they
come?"
"Soon. In a week or two. That queer little red house near the
Post-Office belongs to Captain Lucas. He has lost money lately, so they
are glad to live there rent-free."
"What is Miss Lucas like?"
"Oh, rather pretty," with would-be indifference. "You'd never guess
what a dull life hers has been. I say, Mr. Trevelyan is unconscionably
long. We'd better go to meet him. You must keep clear of the cottages;
but I can't leave you alone here."
Jean yielded after some hesitation, and they had not far to walk. One
turn brought them within view of a figure lounging on the ground,
resting against the smooth bole of a large beech.
"Father!" exclaimed Jean. "Why, he has fainted!"
Mr. Trevelyan had never in his life been more ashamed of himself. That
he should faint, like any hysterical school-girl, was too ridiculous.
Cyril privately doubted whether the attack were a genuine swoon; but he
wisely said nothing.
When with much trouble they had brought Mr. Trevelyan round, the latter
refused to be counted an invalid. As for needing help in the walk down
the gorge—Cyril might look to Jean! And Mr. Trevelyan strode off at his
most vigorous pace. This could not last, however. Cyril's tough young
arm was soon needed, if the Rector wished to get home that night.
Once safe in his study, Mr. Trevelyan rallied, and laughed at Cyril's
proposal to send for Dr. Ingram.
"Nothing was wrong," he said. "Merely a touch of over-fatigue. A good
night would set him to rights."
He had been to Barclay's cottage, had found him out, and had met him
immediately afterwards.
"A rather disagreeable interview," Mr. Trevelyan admitted. "The man was
abusive. I told him I should follow my conscience as to calling again,
whether or no he wished to see me."
Jean's adventure was then related; and Cyril ventured to recommend
greater care.
"Jean ought not to go about alone in such places, now she was a young
lady."
Mr. Trevelyan's eyes twinkled, and Jean's quick ears caught the sound
of a faint mutter, not unlike "teaching your grandmother!" Then he
thanked Cyril politely for the hint; since whatever else Mr. Trevelyan
might be, he was always a gentleman. "Jean must exercise discretion,"
he said. "I can't supply a groom to walk in her rear. Barclay probably
meant no harm. He is a sulky bear; but I must do my duty."
"He will consider that he has given you fair warning."
"Of his intention to toss me over the rocks? Two are needed for that
little game. Possibly I might fail to consent. However, I am much
obliged to you for your care of Jean—" holding out his hand with a
grasp which almost made up for the preceding irony.
"You don't think the best plan would be to leave the man alone for a
while, till he wants you?"
"Least trouble for myself, no doubt. Not most hopeful for him. His has
been a dark story; and he shall have one more chance—if I can give it
to him." Mr. Trevelyan's penetrating eyes looked into Cyril's, and the
stern lips softened unwontedly to ask, "If Christ were here, would He
leave that poor fellow to go down hopelessly—without an effort to pull
him up?"
"Then you will agree with me!" Cyril exclaimed, and forthwith, he
poured out the story of the Lucases.
"Yes: you are right," Mr. Trevelyan said, at the first break. "I agree
with you. As brother Christians, and brother Churchmen, we may not
'walk by on the other side.'"
"And you will call?"
"I will do all in my power—and Jean will do all in hers. They will
be in Jem's Parish; and you should go to him. But," after a moment's
thought, "don't be too ready to condemn those who take a different
view. There may be difficulties involved, not apparent to you. If I had
boys growing up, I should count it a serious matter to throw them under
his influence. Now I must have half-an-hour's rest, before getting to
work. So good-bye for the present—" once more holding out his hand.
"Jean, I don't know how it is, but there is something about your father
unlike other people," said Cyril, in the passage. "He doesn't go in
for a lot of religious talk; but when he does say something, it goes
straight to the mark. One can't help knowing how he feels it! He's so
real!"
"I'm glad you understand him," Jean answered.